


Boudoir

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Powerbottom!Drift, dom!drift, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6140835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift was described in many ways, each more “stereotypical” than the last.<br/>Hippie, flaky, spiritualistic, optimistic, childish even.</p><p>But this? This was new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boudoir

If anyone had theorized this, it would be the first Ratchet had heard of it.

Drift was described in many ways, each more “stereotypical” than the last. Hippie, flaky, spiritualistic, optimistic, childish even.

But this? This was new.

Drift lounged on silken pillows piled on his wide berth, humming as he flicked idly over a datapad after Ratchet had all-but barged into the habsuite, and froze. Dark satin and velvet, the scent of soft cinnamon and brown sugar and decadence. And there lay Drift, humming absently to himself as he read. The lights were dim, draped with opaque fabrics; the entire scene lulled Ratchet into a weird halfway place of seduction and sedation.

Drift looked up at him, and grinned, showing the tips of his fangs.

“Its rude to leave the door open.”

Ratchet nodded lethargically, staring around at the… room? No, this had gone beyond room straight into boudoir. The only “room” portion of this particular playhouse was the small altar in the back corner where Drift’s swords were hung; the rest was low lights and the promise of secrets in shadowy corners.

“Surprising, hm?”

“You could, uh, say that.”, said Ratchet, letting the door slide shut behind him after stepping completely through, “What is all this?”

“It appeals to me.”, answered Drift simply, powering the datapad down and crossing his legs. He rested his cheek against curled servos, snickering, “You can believe in a loving God and still revel in a little sin y’know.”

“Oh really?”

“I cause no harm, therefore I receive no injury.”, said Drift simply, “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

Ratchet coughed softly, shooting a look at Drift.

Drift laughed, sitting up a little straighter and feeling for a file on the berthside table. He inspected his claws before beginning to carefully file them into diamond-sharp points. Ratchet noted the servo-caps and fang covers in some kind of shell on the berthside table.

“It’s called an abalone. They have lovely wide shells, almost as big as a bowl sometimes. I found that one on an excursion years and years ago.”, said Drift casually, “So, what brings you to my little corner of the ship?”

“No one had seen you all day. I grew… worried.”

“Mm.”, hummed Drift, inspecting the claws he worked on before continuing, “And so you rushed to my habsuite expecting…”

“Honestly I expected to find you asleep. Or meditating, or some such thing.”, said Ratchet, moving closer. He was intrigued. Usually Drift seemed almost forced happy, or relatively demure with no in betweens to his behavior. But this… confident sprawl, like a panther or an exotic being of myth was something entirely new.

And Ratchet enjoyed how Drift wore it.

Absently, the medic reached out to run a finger over the lines of Drift’s leg when the samurai pointed the file at him, “Ah, no touching.”

Ratchet raised an eyebrow as Drift’s grin grew more than a little predatory.

“No touching until you earn it, in here.”

“And just how would I do that?”, asked Ratchet slyly. Two could play at this game.

“You’re a smart mech. Get creative.”, said Drift simply, blinking almost innocently wide optics, “Unless that’s bit out of your… skillset.”

“You don’t know a fraction of my skills, Drift.”

“Regale me then.”

Drift shifted upon his berth, gently taking Ratchet’s hand and smiling, “Or are you feeling a little intimidated?”

Ratchet scoffed, eyeing Drift as he toyed with one of Ratchet’s red hands.

“I mean, it would be understandable, seeing as I could bring you to your knees in five kliks or less.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Drift’s optics glimmered at that, “I was hoping that would be your answer.”

Ratchet watched as Drift pulled the hand in his grasp to his lips and kissed the tip of each servo, and made a disinterested noise. Typical. Everyone goes for the hands…

Drift leaned forward, optics dimming and pressing a kiss to Ratchet’s wrist, “Medics have sensitive hands. Or so the rumor goes. But no one seems to realize just how far back that sensitivity goes. Especially on older medics.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics.

“nd no one seems to know that there’s a midway point where the servo information is gathered to relay to the processor.”, murmured Drift as his grip abandoned the medic’s hand and moved over the plating on Ratchet’s arm. Ratchet swallowed hard, his servos still thrumming from the gentle kisses.

And then, he stopped getting feedback. And Drift smiled.

“And if you really want to play a fantastic little game, you find that first.”

The sensation of servos pressing into the plating at first alarmed Ratchet,the intrigued him. Drift apparently know how the sensory wiring was organized and was causing a break in the connection

Seconds later, Drift was nipping at servos while Ratchet felt the beginning of excited nerves in his tank; no sensory feedback from the pressure in the middle of his forearm means it was building and building- the medic was certain he would be able to handle it.

Well, until Drift’s fangs slipped into the joints of two of Ratchet’s servos and pressed down in a sharp nip; and the pressure on the relay in Ratchet’s forearm was gone.

With the connection untampered with and Drift moaning softly with fangs pressed lightly against the sensitive equipment shielded by the plating on Ratchet’s servos, the medic dropped. His knees hit the floor and he choked as his processor was bombarded with the results of every lap, suckle, and groan that had been relayed into his hand and he shuddered.

Drift let the hand drop and it weakly twitched upon the berth.

“Fragger.”, wheezed Ratchet.

“One of the best.”, said Drift quietly. He chuckled when Ratchet went to grab at thick thighs and gently swatted the medic’s shoulder, “Ah! No touching til you earn it.”

Ratchet swallowed hard, staring up at Drift, who patted the berth.

Legs still shaky, Ratchet hauled himself up onto the berth and sat heavily. Drift giggled, actually giggled, as he straddled the medic’s lap. A clawed servo under Ratchet’s chin tilted the medic’s helm a bit further up to look at the cunning little speedster who grinned down at him.

And gently, ever so gently, Drift pressed his lipplates to Ratchet’s. The medic invented harshly, making a soft noise into the kiss and curling his servos into the berthcover beneath them as a nip to his lower lip made him gasp.

And then Drift took control, fiercely. Ratchet’s optics rolled back and shuttered closed as he groaned roughly into the kiss, wanting nothing more than to wrap this cruel little speedster in his arms and kiss him til his spark went out; Drift pulled away to move to the medic’s neck cables, lapping and nipping at them until Ratchet shivered and gripped the berthcover tighter. 

Drift’s field snapped into play then, surrounding the medic and making him gasp out the samurai’s name as his backstrut seemed to go fluid. Drift let his lover for the day fall back onto the pile of pillows, and sat proudly. His hips rocked, letting panels slide over each other and making Ratchet shudder hard.

“Do you want to touch me?”, asked Drift, his voice warm and smooth like spiced energon.

Ratchet nodded weakly, moaning softly when he heard Drift’s panels snap open.

“Earn it, Ratchet.”, came the order, “Be a good mech, hm?”

Ratchet flared at the phrase, forcing his optics to focus and open and with half a mind to snap at the young mech perched so precariously-

But at the sight of Drift grinning down at him with sly optics, fangs glinting in that smirk and the curves of his frame backlit by the low light, all Ratchet could manage was a whispery, “Please.”

“Present yourself.”

Click.

Ratchet didn’t remember sending a command for his panels to open, nor did he remember any other time his spike throbbed in an almost PAINFUL way but by Primus; here they were and there it was and all he wanted was for Drift to sink down on it and end the sudden suffering.

Drift cooed, moving his hips so that his valve lips were against the spike shaft; pressing it against Ratchet’s stomach plating and sliding over the ridges as his helm tilted back and he sighed like a dream.

Ratchet’s vocalizer spit static, and he reset it as a tiny wave of embarrassment and arousal washed over him. Drift let his glossa peek out between those fanged dentae, and lifted his hips just enough for the spike to raise and press against his slick valve ring.

“What d you say, Ratchet?”

“Pl-ease…”, stuttered the medic.

Slowly, Drift sank down, shivering at the stretch. Carefully, he worked the spike into his valve, panting softly through his vents as he slid over it inch by torturous inch.

Ratchet was trembling when their plating finally clacked together softly.

“Mn.. Ratch…”, purred Drift, rocking his hips and rippling the calipers around the length.

Ratchet’s jaw hung open, fans whirring on high already and temperature warning flashing in his HUD.

Drift raised slowly, his hand moving now to use two servos on a glowing anterior node before he sank down.

“You may touch me.”

Ratchet’s shaking hands went to Drift’s waist as the speedster raised again, both of the samurai’s hands resting over Ratchet’s as he began a slow and heavy ride. The medic’s back arched almost painfully at every clench of the valve around his spike, and he felt the knot that had been building in his tanks threaten to snap already.

“You are not to overload until I give you permission, understood?”, purred Drift wickedly.

“Nngh.”

“Understood?”, said Drift, his voice gaining a bit of a hiss as he dropped his hips hard and Ratchet gasped out his agreement.

“Very good.”

Drift watched Ratchet shudder and arch and squirm as he was ridden tortuously slow.

“Drift, please, I can’t-”

“Now, now, I don’t just give away overloads, Ratchet. You know the rules by now.”

Ratchet’s grip slid down to Drift’s hips, and squeezed once. Drift felt his body lifted, and then slammed hard onto Ratchet’s spike.

The speedster cried out, optics flickering white as his hands moved to brace against Ratchet’s chestplate. Drift’s moans and gasps sounded off like musical notes as the pace was changed; Ratchet’s hips bucking up into the curvaceous mech as strong hands pulled Drift’s hips into a new rhythm.

Clawed servos pulled at Ratchet’s plating, making the medic sit up before he continued to thrust up into the wanton figure on his lap. Ratchet buried his face against Drift’s neck to muffle his own desperate moans and whines as one of his hand moved to the speedster’s shoulder, pulling him down hard.

Drift almost wailed as there was sudden pressure on his ceiling node, and his body jerked when Ratchet rolled his hips. A chorus of soft whimpers and gasps tumbled from the samurai as he clung to Ratchet tighter with each movement of the medics hips.

The constant pressure got the better of Drift and his mouth dropped open around the medic’s designation as his valve rippled and clenched around the spike deep within it. He heard Ratchet’s frantic panting and aborted little sounds before Drift pressed a kiss to the medic’s cheek.

“Overload.”, he whispered into Ratchet’s audial, sultry as a fantasy and hungry as a devil and Ratchet nearly convulsed.

The medic sank his dentae into the tough cabling of Drift’s neck, making the speedster groan as Ratchet’s hips bucked with each pounding wave of climax that rollicked his sensornet until the CMO took a shuddering invent and merely trembled with his arms around Drift limply.

Drift snickered to himself, settling easily on Ratchet’s lap. The shifting of his hips let the spent spike slip out of him, and Ratchet wheezed an exvent as his leg twitched.

“Don’t you have a shift soon?”

“Shu-”, static feedback interrupted the sentence. A vocalizer clicked in reset, “Shut it.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is sin and I love it.


End file.
